


Necromancy

by Coeurire



Series: FSF Tarot Prompt Table Challenge [4]
Category: The Wicked Years Series - Gregory Maguire, Wicked - All Media Types, Wicked - Schwartz/Holzman
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/F, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Magic, draws mainly from the book canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:28:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24514630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coeurire/pseuds/Coeurire
Summary: The Grimmerie had at least twice as many warnings against necromancy as it had necromantic spells at all, which Glinda thought was a bit unnecessary. Surely every user resorting to necromancy was, like her, at the end of her rope. Would, like her, risk anything to talk to their loved one again.
Relationships: Elphaba Thropp/Galinda Upland, Glinda the Good/Wicked Witch of the West
Series: FSF Tarot Prompt Table Challenge [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1795486
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20
Collections: femslashficlets: tarot prompt challenge





	Necromancy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Femslash Ficlets tarot prompt table challenge. 
> 
> The Magician: A sudden solution, as if by magic - but it may be just an illusion.

The candles were lit. The circles were drawn, the ingredients added, the incantations chanted. A ring-covered hand held a sharpened hairpin, drew a single thin drop of blood from its owner, let the drop fall onto the candle, enough to darken it for a moment but not enough to put it out entirely. 

The Grimmerie had at least twice as many warnings against necromancy as it had necromantic spells at all, which Glinda thought was a bit unnecessary. Surely every user resorting to necromancy was, like her, at the end of her rope. Would, like her, risk anything to talk to their loved one again. 

Their loved one. Love one. She still loved one, only loved one. Sir Chuffrey was fine, and she appreciated the way he always left her and her underskirts alone when she was trying to sleep, but he’d never be...well, whatever Elphaba had been to her. She thought she might never be sure. 

Her finger ran like water down the page, and she began to cry as she recited the next lines.  _ Good, that means it’s working.  _ She cried and intoned, intoned and cried, rocking back and forth in the pale yellow candlelight, the deepening yellow candlelight, the bluish yellow candlelight. 

Greenish, really. 

She intoned louder. Chuffrey was out at the house of one of his passionate male friends, their estate was far from any neighbors who might hear, and frankly, at this point she didn’t care whether the servants heard her or not. All she cared about was whether she could come back. Somehow, if Glinda could bring her back, it would all be worth it; all the secret magic, the summoning spells, the illusory charms, the regrets, the time she could have pulled Elphaba Thropp into a kiss and didn’t and let her go, go to her death at Kiamo Ko--

She was interrupted from her reverie and her intoning by a swirl of green mist growing from the candles. The mist grew more tangible, more obviously shaped, more obviously naked until it swirled a black cloud of smoke-frock over itself. Glinda stood transfixed, waiting for the figure to speak first. 

What it said was, “Galin--shit. Fuck. I mean, Glinda?” 

Glinda stared wide-eyed like a child. It was her, unquestionably her. Her pointed nose, her jutting chin, every part of her body feeling mismatched and awkward and unsure how to hold itself in the space, which was, of course, in this case the space between the material plane and whatever plane she came from. “Elphie,” she breathed. 

The figure laughed, not unkindly. “Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.” 

“You’re okay,” Glinda said. 

“Okay as I’ll ever be.” The figure regained a little more clarity. Elphaba was as young as she’d been when Glinda had last seen her, all high cheekbones and proud, fierce expression. 

“Oh my God. What’s it like, um, being…” She trailed off. 

“Dead, I assume?” Elphaba finished bluntly. “Fine. I’m at peace.” 

“Really?” 

Elphaba laughed again. “Of course not. Everything continues, Glinda, always. Between you and me, the underworld’s a shithole, and not an irredeemable shithole either. It just needs some fire and brimstone, if you catch my drift. I’m telling you this because I trust you’re a long way from your time.” 

“You’re a revolutionary even in death, then?” 

Elphaba shrugged. “I told you, everything continues. I don’t think that’s why you called me here, though.” 

“Well, I sort of wanted to know you were at peace,” said Glinda, voice a little shaky. “But no. No, it’s not. I guess I called you here to say...I’m sorry.” 

“I accept your apology,” said Elphaba, seriously. 

“And I love you,” continued Glinda, with a tone of voice that said  _ I’ve practiced this in the mirror a hundred times.  _ “I think I always have.”

Elphaba cupped her chin in her hand, the best she could with her spectral, translucent fingers. “My sweet,” she said. “My dear. You have to know I feel the same way. That’s really why you called me?” 

Glinda nodded, tears like tiny diamonds caressing her bottom lashes. “It is. That’s it. Oh, Elphie, Elphaba, I’m sorry. And I love you. And I’m sorry. And I--”

Elphaba moved her lips to where Glinda’s were, barely made a connection, but Glinda still closed her eyes as if it was really a kiss. “My Oz,” she said, pulling away after a long while. “I have no idea what I’m doing, Elphaba. What I’m doing without you.” 

Elphaba paused. A long moment passed. “Glinda, there’s something you should know about necromantic magic,” said Elphaba. “It’s extremely close to illusory magic.” 

Glinda’s heart plummeted to the depths of her abdomen. “What are you trying to tell me?” she asked. “That you’re not real? That you’re a figment of my imagination?” 

“That, or I’m not available to summon from the astral plane,” said Elphaba. She looked around hurriedly. “So you’re talking to yourself, because I’m not really here. Or because I’m not really--” 

And she vanished in a puff of smoke. Glinda finished the sentence for her, aloud. Tears ran down her face in rivulets. 

“Dead.” 

She was the first to paint the walls of the Palace, late that night, giving the guards a wink and a smile as she walked away with her bucket of paint. 

**Author's Note:**

> Twitter: Coeurire 
> 
> Tumblr: mothbutterfly


End file.
